


"safe?" "safe."

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, F/F, Getting Together, It wasn't supposed to be, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, POV Natasha Romanov, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Red Room (Marvel), Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Sparring, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, but it is, it's really soft, natasha's whipped even if she doesn't know it yet, soft Wanda Maximoff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26136859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Natasha spends the next week paying keenly for that absolute mess of a first encounter.Her guilt shoulders most of the work in that respect, but there’s more to it, too. Namely, the scarred-over mark on her hip.It burns when Wanda is far, and aches when she is near, making damn sure Natasha never forgets what some fundamental part of her already knows beyond a shadow of a doubt to be true: that Wanda Maximoff is her soulmate.Or: Just another Soulmate AU where the first words you speak to your soulmate is branded somewhere on their body
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 24
Kudos: 299





	"safe?" "safe."

**Author's Note:**

> okay please go easy on me here? i've never written soulmates before so it was like new for me to really have to think about the emotional impact that'd have and how it'd change interactions that mean a lot to begin with and stuff
> 
> but n e ways,
> 
> someone sent me an anon on tumblr about wandanat stuff, and i'm currently having a bit of a block with my wip 'green eyes' for them, so i figured maybe i should try something else? 
> 
> plus they were right okay it's been a Minute since i wrote wandanat and that really is the whole reason i got myself an account here last year to begin with
> 
> so uh. back to basics, i suppose?
> 
> i still suck at proofreading (as in, i didn't do it) i'm so sorry i'm trash please let me know if there are any mistakes

Logically, Natasha knows she has a soulmate. Or, at the very least, that she was _supposed_ to. 

Their words (the first ones that they would ever speak to her) were once sunken into the pale flesh of her left hip—a simple phrase in blackened ink that was supposed to mean _everything_. 

For better or for worse, all that remains of it is a long, thin scar running horizontally just beneath the jut of her hip bone; raised and white with age, virtually unnoticeable… unless you’re looking for it, of course. 

Judging by the length of the scar (and granted her soul-mate’s handwriting isn’t abnormally large or extraordinarily minuscule), she thinks it reasonable of her to surmise that it (her soul mark, that is) was probably five words or so. Not that that gives her much of a hint (if any at all) as to what they might’ve been. 

She knows she didn’t have it in the beginning, when the Red Room wasn’t quite yet home for her. (For whatever that’s worth.)

But somewhere along the way, when she became Natalia and the frightened weakling inside her grew strong, it happened. 

She'd had it for less than a day before they burned it off (and added another mind-wipe session with the dreaded chair for their troubles). She’s certain she knew the words at that point, even if only for a short time. 

Regardless, it isn’t worth mourning over. Those memories are as lost as the rest of her. She knows better than to think she’ll ever get them back. 

Sometimes, even now, she'll sit alone and think about them under the cover of a pitch-black night. The not knowing of it all will make her insides molten with regret and bitterness and a sense of longing so profound, it’ll feel like dying. 

To be clear—she isn’t scared to die. She hasn’t been for a very long time. But this kind of dying… it feels _different_ , as best as she can describe it. It’s dizzying and overwhelming and scary in a way nothing else ever is, and Natasha absolutely loathes it. 

All that’s left for her to do is pray that it’ll never hold any real relevance for her (beyond that which it already does, of course). 

Maybe her soulmate is dead. Honestly, at this point, she thinks that’d be by far the most favorable outcome. After all, _she_ certainly wouldn’t want to be stuck with the likes of her for eternity. 

… Which is morbid, perhaps, but it’s honest, and Natasha deals far too much in lies for that not to mean something. 

Either way, she knows far better than to let herself ruminate on it for too long. 

The whole thing is moot, anyhow.

— — 

It happens the day after Ultron, late at night—long after the Tower’s other occupants have gone to sleep. 

It’s cold down in the communal kitchen on the 20th floor. The lacquered concrete chills the flats of her feet as she pads over to the stove. 

She isn’t surprised to track a pair of distinctive footsteps approaching from the adjacent hallway—an uneven, hesitant gait. Light, untrained. Wanda, their newest member, or… something. 

Natasha isn’t quite familiar with her yet, but she’d done her due diligence nonetheless—mapping the younger woman’s physical tells, the history of her life before Ultron (what little of it could be found)... In her line of work, that’s a non-negotiable part of acquainting herself with someone new, particularly one she’ll likely be fighting alongside in the future. 

She’s filled the kettle halfway, and is setting it atop the lower left burner when she hears it Wanda’s quiet gait come to a halt in the entryway. 

Natasha decides to give her a minute or two to spark a dialogue. She can practically _feel_ the young witch’s anxiety, how it rolls off of her in waves. 

Of course, she has little love for anyone reckless enough to regress her back to the Red Room with a flick of the wrist (even unintentionally). 

Regardless, she figures a dash of cordiality can’t possibly hurt. (Particularly in light of what she’s lost— _who_ she’s lost.)

Three minutes later, and still there comes no sign of initiative from the grief-stricken woman.

Natasha bites back a sigh. 

“The tea won’t be ready for another couple minutes,” she calls over her shoulder, fiddling with the heat settings until she’s satisfied. “But there’s more than enough for two.”

It’s a kindly enough offer on its own, Natasha knows, yet Wanda inhales sharply from the entryway like it’s anything but. 

“Oh, my God,” she gasps. “It is you.” 

She speaks almost… _reverently_ , closing in on Natasha from behind like a moth drawn to an open flame, and Natasha’s hip _burns_. 

Natasha doesn’t really hear what she says next, just turns slowly in place to lay eyes on what she _prays_ is just some sleep-deprived illusion. Wanda Maximoff, wide-eyed and innocent, a sort of helpless doubt in her blue-green eyes that would undoubtedly break the heart of a lesser woman. 

A lesser woman she is not, yet Natasha can’t help finding her beauteous all the same. (In the very same breath, she loathes herself profoundly for it.)

Wanda possesses the kind of natural beauty that’s spell-binding even in the most garden-variety apparel—a standard-issue S.H.I.E.L.D. T-shirt and black leggings to match, in this case. Her nails—toes and fingers—are painted with chipped black polish, and an assortment of well-worn silver rings adorns both hands. It’s distracting for all the wrong reasons, and Natasha finds herself looking for far longer than she can excuse beneath the guise of impartial reconnaissance. 

Wanda’s quite the rambler, it seems, and Natasha manages to recover herself enough in time to catch the very tail end of it:

“… I—I am so _very_ sorry, I am,” she persists— _pleads_ , really. The sound of it makes Natasha’s heart twinge painfully in her chest. "Can you ever forgive me?”

Natasha just blinks, uncharacteristically abashed. 

The Sokovian witch— _Wanda_ —tilts her head curiously whilst she appraises Natasha with wide, youthful eyes. (It vaguely reminds Natasha of a puppy.) “Are you… alright?” she questions tentatively, and Natasha feels like hitting something. “Did I say something wrong?”

She reaches forth as if to touch Natasha, _comfort_ her, and Natasha promptly jerks herself out of reach. The warmth of the stove grows hot against her lower back the closer she gets, threatening to sear her skin through the flimsy fabric of her tee, but she does not desist. 

“I’m fine,” she bites out tersely, taking a morbid satisfaction in the way it makes Wanda instantly recoil. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m not who you think I am.”

Wanda frowns, one hand coming up to hover just beneath her own shoulder—her soul mark. It has to be. “But my mark—"

"You’re mistaken."

Wanda’s pouty frown deepens, tears welling in those pretty blue-green eyes (already bloodshot from hours of crying over her departed twin brother), and something deep inside Natasha’s chest feels like it’s breaking. “Y-You are lying,” she accuses, lower lip wobbling. “I-I don’t understand. Why are you lying?”

The kettle begins shrieking from atop the stove, and Natasha takes the blessed interference in stride. 

“Would you like a cup?” Natasha asks, measured and even. 

A tear streaks its way down Wanda’s flush-tinged cheeks. (It rips through Natasha like a bullet to the chest.) “I… Okay,” she sniffles, the bitter sting of defeat hanging heavy in her stricken tone. "Th-That would be nice.”

— — 

She spends the next week paying keenly for that absolute mess of an encounter. 

Her guilt shoulders most of the work in that respect, but there’s more to it, too. Namely, the scarred-over mark on her hip. It burns when Wanda is far, and aches when she is near, making damn sure Natasha never forgets what some fundamental part of her already knows beyond a shadow of a doubt to be true: that Wanda Maximoff is her soulmate. 

A day later, she’s conditioned herself well enough to (almost) compartmentalize the pain, diminishing the searing ache in her hip to a dull soreness that only occasionally pricks at the edges of her consciousness. It’s not perfect, but it’s as close as Natasha expects she’ll get to something like it, considering the circumstances.

And yet, it seems, the universe isn’t quite yet finished with yanking her and her ~~sort of~~ soulmate around without a trace of clemency:

Steve approaches her at breakfast in the hopes that she’ll agree to begin training Wanda in basic field proficiency. She can’t find a good enough reason to say no (without arousing suspicion, that is), so she doesn’t. And sure, perhaps there’s a not-so-little part of her that accepts the task because she _cares_ , because she knows that Wanda (for all her magical ability) doesn’t have the kind of discipline to keep herself from getting killed when things go bad. 

Reading people is what she does, and Wanda is like an open book. She’s powerful but undisciplined, perceptive yet hopelessly impetuous.

Her powers are mercurial and deadly, a ticking time bomb… something far too vast for her to tame. Far too vast for _anyone_ to tame, really. 

Still, it is hers to bear, and Natasha has never seen the point in speculating on what _should be_. 

Anyways. 

She knows it's a mistake—agreeing to train Wanda, that is. 

She knows that the moment they step foot in the same room, her mark will flare up like an infected wound on her aching hip. It’s a fair bet to say that Wanda’s will, too. Though, perhaps there’s something to be said for Wanda’s acceptance of their predicament, especially when rivaled with Natasha’s stubborn opposition. 

Perhaps the sting of the young witch’s mark will whisper where Natasha’s lets loose a boisterous roar.

Perhaps it won’t hurt at all for her, even as it pains Natasha greatly. (She prays that that’s the case.)

Either way, it won’t be pleasant—for either of them. 

And yet, when all other auxiliary components are removed from the equation, the math is simple: a couple hours’ worth discomfort each day for the likely chance that what Natasha teaches Wanda will save her life, now and for years to come.

Give a man a fish, he eats for a day. Teach a man how to fish, he eats for a lifetime. 

As far as Natasha is concerned, Wanda’s already drawn the short stick in terms of soulmates (—understatement of the century). She’ll be damned if she doesn’t do all she can to better the rest of it while she’s able. 

— — 

They make it through a solid half-hour of sparring before things get dicey. 

Natasha’s mark bites painfully into her hip beneath an admittedly petite pair of black running shorts, but that is not what throws her. 

Pain is not her enemy. (It never has been.)

She works around it—with it, even. Every movement is calculated, precise, tailored to account for her body’s natural pain response well before it lands. Thus far, she’s thrown Wanda to the mat on four separate occasions while the other two spars have ended similarly (if not a tad less harshly).

Her hip twinges with every blow, every point she gains on a person she shouldn’t even be fighting in the first place—even if it is just practice. 

Wanda’s rather clearly dealing with some pain of her own (unrelated to exertion), and Natasha responds in kind by making a conscious effort to keep any offensive strikes well away from her left shoulder. 

Pain must be compartmentalized. She knows that, and Wanda would do well to learn it—though, of course, not to the extent that she herself was made to once upon a time. 

No, Wanda doesn’t deserve that kind of cruelty. Even if she did, Natasha most certainly would not be the one to administer it. 

Wanda's back hits the mat hard, all the air audibly leaving her lungs in a rush. Natasha follows quickly after. She makes sure not to allow a single inch for Wanda to slip free: expertly straddling her slender hips in a mounted position, right forearm pressing down against Wanda’s throat while her free hand pins Wanda’s dominant arm to the mats below in an iron grip. 

It’s not quite textbook, as she’s left herself (her head, particularly) vulnerable to counter-attack in such a way that the actual technique (derived from Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu) would not. Still, it suits her purposes, because she wants to look Wanda in the eye while they talk through what she’s done wrong. Natasha won’t let her up until she does. 

Or, at least—that’s the plan, originally. 

They don’t quite get to the ‘discussion’ bit of the round as a renewed surge of white-hot pain erupts beneath the burn on her hip, pulling her focus. 

Still, it’s just as she said—pain is not her enemy. Its effect on her is minimal (for the moment), and she manages to grit her teeth against it in favor of a more disciplined focus: assessing her (their) current status.

Wanda writhes frantically beneath her (for all the good that does) even while she remains immobilized beneath Natasha’s hold. It’s almost fascinating in a morbid sense: feeling her body arch against her own as if she’s been electrocuted, crushing her own windpipe against Natasha’s forearm, choking herself violently in a desperate bid to wriggle free—like a rabid dog in captivity gnawing its own leg off to escape.

Still, as fascinating as it may be, it’s easily a hundred times more heart-wrenching. It pierces Natasha’s gut, yanks at the frayed edges of her dwindling restraint like nothing else in recent memory ever could. 

“Wanda,” Natasha calls out firmly, injecting as much authority into her strained tone as she can muster. “Wanda, look at me.” She wrenches her forearm from Wanda’s throat like it burned her, latches onto the girl’s free wrist instead and pins that down with a _thud_ despite her whimpered protests. “ _Wanda_.”

“Natasha,” Wanda whimpers, wide blue-green eyes welling with tears. “I-It _hurts_.”

“I know it does,” Natasha soothes, leaning in close on something of a whim and resting her forehead gently against Wanda’s. It hardly even occurs to her to think of all the reasons why she shouldn’t, why she _can’t_. All she can feel is _Wanda_ —the dampness of her sweat-dotted forehead against her own, the way her anguished whines quiet dramatically in response to Natasha’s proximity. “Shh, shh. You’re okay. You’re with me, Wanda—just focus on me. No one else.”

Wanda’s breathless pants are hot against her lips, and Natasha thinks she’ll probably go cross-eyed if they play this up-close staring game with one another for much longer… and yet, there’s no place she’d rather be. 

Natasha’s heart rate thuds fast in her chest, but there’s a louder one positively thundering in her skull—one she seems to just _know_ is Wanda’s and not her own. No apparent rhyme or reason to it, yet she knows it to be true. 

It’s not Natasha's imagination that the ache in her hip gradually begins to wane, nor that the deafening rhythm of Wanda’s heartbeat pounding against the insides of her skull seems to slow little by little until it perfectly matches her own. 

“N-Natasha,” Wanda gasps breathily out, shuddering beneath Natasha’s weight. Wanda's staring up at her, pupils blown with reverence like Natasha’s the very air she breathes—a savior, an angel, a lighthouse on raging seas. “I… I am with you."

Natasha pulls back a little to catch her breath (though it grates painfully on her heart to do so). “Yeah, Wanda,” she agrees gently. "You’re with me.”

The sensation of dainty fingers curling between her own momentarily draws her attention, and she notices she’s not pinning Wanda’s wrists to the mats any longer. Somewhere along the way, Wanda's palms aligned with her own, their fingers lacing seamlessly together like they belong.

Their hands are sweaty, and they are too, but it _fits_ , somehow. 

_They_ fit. 

“Safe?” There’s a disbelieving note to Wanda’s hushed tone as she asks it, an adorable frown marring those pouty pink lips that Natasha can’t help but yearn to kiss away. 

So, she does. (She's always been better at actions than with words, anyhow.)

One kiss. 

“Safe,” she repeats, looking Wanda dead in the eyes to let her know she means it. 

Another—chaste and gentle.

She begins to pull away, more than satisfied for the moment, and in the very same breath, Wanda follows—surging up to catch her lips in a frenzied kiss that has Natasha immediately reciprocating with a muffled groan. It’s warm and wet and bordering on obscene, _messy_ in a way that should by all accounts put her off—yet in fact, it seems only to do anything but. 

Wanda tastes like honey and hard-earned sweat and something that’s entirely all her own—something that seeps its way through Natasha’s skin and slithers between her very bones, settling itself around her heart in a cloud of warmth that burns so hotly she’s surprised it doesn’t hurt. (The farthest thing from it, actually.)

It’s addictive. _She’s_ addictive, and Natasha doesn’t think she’ll ever stop wanting ( _needing_ ) more.

Huh. So _this_ is what it’s like to have a soulmate. 

Who knew?

— —

**Author's Note:**

> comments make my whole entire day, plus this was my first time writing a soulmates au so please please don't hesitate to let me know your thoughts<3
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/) or just search me up @ultralightdumbass 'cause i'm on there a lot more often!)


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